


In the Lining of your Skin

by heavy_cream



Series: As Certain Dark [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Growing Old Together, M/M, Sexual Content, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2155086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavy_cream/pseuds/heavy_cream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are 35 and slow dancing in the dark with the boy you always liked, who makes you think of summer days and smiles when he kisses you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Lining of your Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [In the lining of your skin - Debajo de tu piel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5776282) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)



> Woefully unbetaed. Part of **As Certain Dark** series but can be read on its own.
> 
> The POV alternates sequentially between Aomine and Kise.
> 
> Edit 8/22: I added a missing scene. I was going to post it separately but I really didn't want to make an entire work of just that so I just went back to edit it in.

You are 26 and in your bed in New York and it’s six in the morning and he’s lying there next to you. It’s early and you know he’s probably tired and jet-lagged, but you can’t help pulling him closer still, pressing kisses into his skin just to taste him, just to feel his warmth against you. 

He stirs awake and arches against you before he turns around to look at you with sleepy, golden eyes and your heart stutters in your chest because he’s like an eternal summer and you’ve wanted him for so long you hardly know what to do now that he’s here.

“Good morning,” you greet and he smiles and it’s like a sunrise. 

“Yes,” he says and you move without realizing sliding on top of him because you have the sudden need to feel him, to kiss him. You want him, constantly and you think you will probably never stop wanting him, and when he slides his arms around you and pulls you close it’s as if everything suddenly comes into focus all at once and something inside you seems to settle and you think _”finally”_.

*

You are 26 and in New York. It’s close to noon and you are, lying sated and a bit sleepy, stretched out on your belly in his bed. You watch him as he walks towards the bathroom, idly scratching his head and completely nude. The summer light streaming through the window plays over his dark skin, highlighting the shift and bunch of his muscles as he moves. You hug a pillow, rub your face in it when you realize it smells like him, and feel utterly foolish.

And also, very happy.

*

You are 27 and it’s the first game of the season and you are kissing him in the lockers, messily, hotly, running your hands over his sides to slide them back and over his ass. You hum pleased when he groans and you slide a leg between his, urging him closer still, encouraging him to rub against you, and you could do this always, you realize. You could spend an eternity listening to those needy whimpers he makes, feeling his body undulate under yours. You wish you had more time to finish what you started, but the game is starting in about half a minute, and the coach is probably going to murder you if he finds you making out in the lockers. 

You press your whole body against his, move your mouth over his jaw and towards his neck and leave a bright, red mark on his pale skin. Satisfied you give one last tug on his earlobe, your tongue running over his earring and then step away. 

He’s leaning against the lockers, his shirt is rumpled and halfway pulled out of his pants, his lips are swollen, his face is flushed. He’s hard and so are you, but this was what you wanted, to torment him and yourself. 

“Daiki,” he says breathy, needy, and you are brutally aware that you would do anything he asked if he did it in that voice.

“Fuck,” you say, take a deep breath and reach out to run your thumb over his lips. “Fuck,” you repeat and kiss him one last time before jogging out to catch up with your team. 

He takes revenge later that night but you don’t really mind because you end up coming three times before passing out for 12 hours straight and it’s really a win-win situation.

*

You are 32 and it’s the last game of the season and it’s going to be a tough one, you can feel it in your bones. Its hard and fast from the beginning and you know immediately it’s going to be tougher than you expected, because you may have experience on your side, but they have youth. The uncertainty runs through you like a fire and it’s like being 16 again, and every pivot is sharp, every move calculated, and you feel the toll in every fiber of your being.

You are 32 and your body feels heavy in the last quarter and you know, reasonably, that it’s age and wear and tear getting to you. You also decide to fuck it all to hell, because you were born for this, for only this, and you will make your body obey you.

You are 32 and your right knee is starting to give out, the muscles feeling tight, each step a bit shorter, each jump a bit lower.

You are 32 and there are 10 seconds left and you will win this because that is what you do, that is what this game is about.

You are 32 and old enough to know that you are past your limit and shouldn’t do that last dunk.

You are 32 and old enough to know that you will.

*

You are 32 and you watch him win a match and fall and fall and fall.

*

You are 33 and so is he and you are both left alone in the doctors office. 

“Surgery,” the doctor had said, “followed by months of rehabilitation.” 

You are sitting on the examination table and he’s leaning against the door and watches you quietly with his golden eyes and you find you are suddenly tired. You look down, stare directly at your bandaged knee that aches even now when it’s doing nothing other than _exist_.

“Daiki,” he says softly suddenly from very close and when you look up he’s right in front of you.

“Daiki,” he repeats and brushes a thumb against your cheek and you realize only then that you are crying.

“Ah-” you start and your voice breaks and you can’t even curse properly. You are angry and frustrated and mostly you are very, very scared, and you suppose that this is why you reach out to clutch at his shirt and press your face to his chest. And he holds you and presses his cheek against you hair and lets himself get swamped by your emotions.

“It’s going to be alright,” he says and you want to believe him but you know your body and right now it doesn’t seem like it ever will be.

*

Later you will remember that year as 'the quiet time' because even though he's never been particularly loud, he's always had a presence that made the air shift around, that made him stand out in a packed room. But in those months after his injury, after the surgery particularly, he seems to turn within himself and you watch as he lies next to you in bed and it feels like back when you were in Tokyo and he was in New York and there was an ocean between you.

He falls into a slump so deep you fear you won't be able to drag him out of it, and when he does surface, it's in anger he unleashes on everyone around him, particularly you. But you don't find it hard to be tender when he can't seem to, to be calm when his anger claims him, to be soft when he's reduced to jagged edges. You will stand for him while he can't, and you spend your nights whispering 'I love you' when he's asleep because even though he doesn't want to hear it right now, you know it's what he needs to know regardless.

*

You have never been unaware of the fact, that you are kind of an asshole most of the time, but you know it's different when you take your anger out on him when all he did was ask: "how was your day." But the thing is, you can't control it. You can't talk about it, not to him, because you feel you are letting him down, because you are idiotically envious of how he leaves for work and comes back at the end of the day and you've been stuck at home with _crutches_. And it's not his fault, of course it isn't, someone needs to make sure you have groceries and the bills are paid and you know this but it _irks_ you that it's him doing the chores.

"He's always done the chores," Kagami very unhelpfully points out to you one day on one of his visits, and you kick him with your good leg.

"It's different," you say and Kagami frowns.

"How?"

"Because now he _has_ to do it," you say and Kagami might be an idiot in a lot of things, but he gets it, and he supposes that's why you kind of ended up being friends in the first place.

"Yeah, but just because he has to do it, doesn't mean he doesn't want to do it too," Kagami adds and takes your empty plate back to the kitchen, and you realize that it's actually because he says things like that, that you are friends.

*

There is a moment when he starts rehab, were things start to change and you are not sure for a long time if it's getting better or worse. It's better, because he has a goal to focus on and he's leaving the house regularly. However, the lack of progress frustrates him and he's scared by the pain he still feels, and you know this because you have learned to read his body, to hear volumes of unspoken words in the slant of his mouth, because he still doesn't talk to you. You start hovering over him and you don't intend to, you are just so worried about him, you are scared that the rift between you might never close, that he will never loose the unhappiness that seems to have taken a permanent hold in him, that he will never give you that smug smile that makes you go weak in the knees. But mostly, you are worried that he will never move on from that spot where you both seem to have gotten stuck. So you hover and make things worse and he snaps at you and you leave him alone and then later, you both lie in bed facing away, pretending to sleep.

You end up talking to Kuroko about it, because you don't know how to pull him out of it and Kuroko says: "beat it out of him. Or have sex."

You feel it's the worse advice he has ever given and you get home in a bad mood and kind of angry, but you open the door and you see him on the couch, with that awful unhappy look and you decide nothing could possibly be worse. You take a deep breath, and close the door behind you.

"I'm home," you say in the most annoying sing-song voice you could manage and he glances at you to say welcome home before going back to flip through the channels. You move to stand in front of him and bend down to kiss him and he responds like it's a chore, so you straddle him, carefully, and he instantly complaints.

"What the fuck?" He sputters but you are kissing him again, running your hands through his hair ignoring how he keeps clutching at your sides. 

"I'm in the mood," you say close to his ear and press urgent kisses to his jaw and he pushes you away.

"Get off," he says and you land next to him on the couch, sprawled across the cushions. 

You take a gamble then, because you fucking hope Kuroko is right, and give him the most condescending bitch face in you repertoire and say: "What, can't even fuck anymore?" 

The change is instant. He goes from annoyance to half a second of utter disbelief before it shifts right past anger and into fury. 

"What did you say?" he asks dangerously low and you shrug, standing up.

"Don't worry, I'll go take care of it by myself," you say and move to the bedroom, your heart is in your throat because this could go horribly wrong, but you've barely stepped in before he grabs you and almost throws you on the bed. What follows is the angriest sex you've ever had and there is none of his finesse but all of his skill and determination and your first orgasm is ripped from you before you even know it's going to happen.

"You piss me off," he says and uses your own come slick you up inside. "You are such a pain in the ass," he adds with a snarl as he opens you up and you can't even catch your breath. He's careful even as he's rough and the slight ache makes the pleasure seem sharper. He gets you hard again, faster than what is strictly comfortable for you and pulls your hips to the edge of the bed and slides into you while he stands and you kneel. He feels impossibly large and you are in a daze but he's fucking you now, doesn't wait to built up a rhythm and goes hard from the beginning and and it's as if he's pushing the moans out of you with every thrust. He turns frantic and tugs at your cock until you come almost dry and you feel exhausted and wrung out, but he doesn't stop and you sense his desperation in the way he moves. You are about to say something to him, when he stops abruptly. With a curse he pulls out of you in a rush and you know he hasn't come yet.

"Fuck-" he shouts and stumbles onto the bed. "Fuck," he repeats and fists the sheet even as he presses his palm to his knee and you realize he's in pain. You move then to kneel next to him on the bed and your heart aches because he's never looked so unhappy, so heart-wrenchingly sad, in his life. You reach out then and he's trembling and you realize his chest is heaving not out of exertion but out of something else, and you embrace him. He tries to shake you off but you straddle him again and lock your arms around him and his hands clutch your side.

"Stop," you say firmly, "just stop," you repeat softer and his hands twitch if they don't know if they want to pull you close or push you away. 

"Kise," he says completely miserable and he sounds so, so tired that everything inside of you just yearns for him.

"Let me," you add and brush your lips against his temple. You take his face in your hands and kiss him softly then and he arches upwards, into your mouth and at last it feels like him. It's a bit desperate and too sloppy, but it's honest and real and you could cry because it's been months since you've had last had him and you were afraid that you might have lost him.

"Let me," you repeat and you are tender when you touch him, when you push him back onto his back. You run fingertips over strained muscle until it relaxes, press kisses into his skin until his breath quickens and his hands become restless. You ride him, slide him into you, and it's a slow, gentle glide and a stark contrast to what you did before. He reaches out for your, locks his hands with yours and watches you through half lidded eyes, and it's the first time since his injury that you think, really believe, everything will be okay.

You sit up and arch back, because he's deep and thick and somehow heavy, and he's looking at you like he's helpless and all you want is for him to let you take care of him. "Daiki," you whimper because it's all so much inside you and you have a wealth of sensation welling up in your chest and it's making it hard to breath.

"Ryouta," he says and his voice trembles as he pulls you down, "Ryouta," he repeats on something that's almost a sob and you can barely move but you kiss him softly and watch him shake apart underneath you and empty himself inside you.

"I-" he starts and breaks off and buries his faces in your neck and tangles his hands in your hair.

"I know," you say and don't let him go until the morning.

*

You never do say sorry to him, even though he deserves the apology. Instead you decide you are done being pathetic and throw yourself into rehab. It's hell and it hurts like a bitch and it feels like every step forward takes you three steps back. But you get home and he's there with his awful cooking and sweet kisses and he always says: "welcome home." At night he lets you hold him so tight you can hardly breath and you know he knows you are saying "thank you".

*

You get home on a Thursday night, laden with groceries, feeling tired and annoyed because traffic was hell and you are mostly wet because it’s November so of course it had to rain and all you want is a hot bath and hot soup and hot tea.

You forget all about it however, because you’ve barely closed the door when he’s already on you, his large warm hands cradling your face, his body crowding yours against the door, and his mouth pressed against yours, hot and wet and you are almost instantly aroused.

“Wha-” you try to ask but you are a bit dazed because it has been _months_ since he’d kissed you like that, and he’s smiling, his face flushed with boyish joy.

“I’ve been cleared,” he says and it takes you half a second to understand and when you do you can barely contain your own happiness.

“Really? For training?” you ask and he nods and you drop the groceries because who cares about squashed tomatoes anyway when you’ve just found out that the love of your life will be able to be happy again. You hold him instead, and kiss him repeatedly, urgently on his mouth, his cheeks, his nose, and you are a bit misty eyed but he’d hardly notice anyway. He stops, for a moment to hold your face, his breath against yours and he closes his eyes as he leans his forehead to yours.

“Thank you,” he says softly because he doesn't know how to say sorry and now you do really want to cry because the past months have been hard, on both of you and you hadn’t minded really. You want to tell him that you had expected his mood and his temper, had understood his frustration, had been ready to stand when he couldn’t, that you had done it gladly, would do it again in a heartbeat. You kiss him instead, because you’ve never been that good with words, and you are sure he knows all of that already. anyway. 

*

You are 33 and you win the first game in the season. You weren’t a starter, probably won’t ever be one again, but you are not that bothered by it, you realize. You only play two quarters, but it’s painless and you know that rehab and training have paid off and the past year was an endurance test that made you stronger. You also get to score the winning point and that just means that your 50% is still twice as good as anybody else’s 100%.

At the end of the game, you look for him amongst the spectators and he’s there, of course he is, in a suit because he’s ridiculous like that, leaning forward onto his elbows, his cheek resting in the palm of his hand and he’s watching you. He’s smiling and you smile back and all you want is to go over, to take his face in your hands and kiss him. Instead you lift your jersey and kiss the damp cloth looking straight at him and you know he gets it because his smile is just a bit softer and his eyes a bit warmer and no trophy has ever made you feel the way he does when he looks at you like that.

*

You are 35 and slow dancing in the dark with the boy you always liked, who makes you think of summer days and smiles when he kisses you.

*

You are 36 and looking around the empty apartment, making sure everything is settled. You can hear him speaking to the landlord and it suddenly hits you that you won’t hear him speak English again, certainly not often, but perhaps not ever. You watch him then, easily talking with the other man, and he has an accent because that’s just the way it is, but he learned the forms of speech, the idioms and the slang, and you are stupidly nostalgic about the way he says: _“yeah.”_

“Are you ready?” he asks you in Japanese and his voice changes, somehow sounding softer and you think that that is not a bad thing at all.

You get into a cab to get to the airport and you say goodbye to New York on a cool October afternoon and you realize you will miss the city and the life you made there, but you look at him then and it feels like you are finally going home.

*

You watch him from the gym door, as he gives out orders to a troupe of sweaty teenage boys who are half in awe of him and half intimidated, and you find it funny how you can so easily relate to that sensation. He is dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt that you bought for him, so it fits perhaps just a touch too tight around the shoulders, but it makes him look broad and strong and you are remembering how those arms felt like when you clung to them that morning while he pounded you through the mattress.

The boys break up into teams and settle into a formation quickly enough and you watch him as he follows the boys, arms crossed over his chest. Gray hair has started to seep through his temples, but it’s still mostly dark. He shouts out an order and then nods satisfied when the boys play it out on the court.

“He’s very good at this,” Kuroko suddenly says next to you and you jump a little because it’s been two decades and you are still not used to the way he just suddenly appears. 

“He likes basketball,” you answer and smile when you see him pull one of the boys closer to demonstrate a shot. 

“You know,” Kuroko says after a moment of silence, “Touou was looking for a coach.”

You are grinning before he even finishes the sentence.

*

He takes up photography of all things and it turns out he’s more than half decent at it. At first you don’t mind because you know how hard it has been for him to be idle while you pursued a career and made a name out of yourself. So really, you are glad that he has found something that he enjoys and you secretly enjoy being the focus of his photography.

The change is gradual, and for many months you aren’t particularly bothered by it, but him getting into photography eventually means that his photo-shoots go on for longer, and then become more frequent when he convinces the agency to just tail along with some of the professionals.

You are not even really aware that the entire thing has turned into a problem for you until he gets back late on a Thursday afternoon, and he’s rosy cheeked, his hair windswept and it’s sort of the way he looks after sex. You are thinking about just that, when he answers your question about his whereabouts with: “I went to the park and took some streetball pictures.”

Your brain does something spectacularly idiotic (and its going to take you YEARS to get over it) because you are irrationally bothered by the fact that _your_ Kise was taking pictures of other _men_ playing _basketball_. While having sex-hair.

“You okay?” He suddenly asks you and you hadn’t even noticed that you were scowling until then.

“I’m fine,” you answer sounding sullen even to your own ears.

“Are you angry?” He asks confused and yes, you are, and you are not going to talk about it.

“No, I’m fine. I’m glad you had a nice time at the park,” you answer, already thinking about going for a run, or playing some ball. Or punching a wall. But his hand is on your arm and you are not going to shrug it off because you are the bigger person in this one sided argument you are having. 

“Wait,” he says genuinely surprised and then asks, “are you jealous?”

There is a moment of silence while you just stand there looking at him in shock. You have an awful moment where you realize that you _are_ jealous, which is immediately followed by the other awful realization that you are over 40 and really should be over such juvenile things.

You are suddenly embarrassed by everything all at once and you kind of want to die and punch a wall, and it must show on your face because he is slowly smiling, his grin spreading wider and wider and you feel like dying.

“That’s so cute,” he adds and it makes everything a thousand times worse.

“I’ll go for a jog,” you say feeling your face heat up but he pulls you, off balancing you and you sort of fall on your ass on the floor. You don’t have time to complain before he’s straddling you and kissing you. 

“You are really cute,” he repeats against your lips and kisses your protest away. “And also kind of dumb,” he adds before sitting up. “You could have told me you were feeling neglected,” he says and that’s just- no.

“I’m not feeling neglected!” You spit out and you are mortified to hear the pout in your voice. You are reminded of how wonderful he really is because he doesn’t call you out on it and instead he just smiles and says “okay,” before leaning back down to kiss you softly. The tension ebbs out of you as he strokes down your chest, as he slides his tongue against yours in that slow, deep way he has. Your hands run over his sides and when he moves away slightly you embrace him and press your face against his neck.

“I’m really not bothered by it,” you say after a moment because you are happy that he’s found something he enjoys and you don’t want him to stop because you are hung up on being a teenager apparently. He cards his fingers through your hair and rubs his cheek against yours.

“I know,” he answers and sits up. His hair is still messy, and his eyes are half-lidded and he has that soft smile of his that makes you all warm inside and you really really want to fuck him.

You end up having sex in the living room and it feels like when you were 26 and in New York and everything was new and frantic. You know you’ll have a bruise on your ass tomorrow and your knee will need icing but he’s sprawled on top of you, all flushed and loose-limbed and mostly naked and now he really does have sex hair, so you think it’s a fair trade. 

You are pondering about how bad it would be to just sleep on the rug when he moves away from you and you are almost asleep when you hear the _‘click click click’_ of the shutter. When you open your eyes you see him standing over you, pants-less, shirt unbuttoned, and grinning even as he aims the camera at you again.

“What the fuck?” You sputter and try to sit up but he straddles you again. 

“You are still my favorite model,” he says and you are blushing so hard you can feel it reach your own hairline. He takes another picture and you are mortified and sort of pleased, and mortified because you are pleased, and also, sort of aroused by it all.

He’s looking at the pictures, thumbing through them and his smile turns delightfully lecherous. “I’ve been dying to do this,” he confesses and to both of your surprise you find yourself getting hard again. His grin has never been wider.

In the end, you did have to ice your knee, and take a hot bath where you almost pass out from sheer exhaustion, and you are now aware of what you look like when you are sucking cock and you think it’s probably wrong to find that hot but then you remember how he swore and came when you decided to make eye contact while he was aiming the camera at you with shaky hands, and really how can anybody feel anything other than smug about that?

*

You take up photography partially because you were curious, but mostly it’s because you find an old picture you took back in high-school with your phone. You don’t actually remember where you were or what you were doing, but it’s him and Kagami laughing at something so hard they are almost crying. It must have been winter, going by the thick jackets and cold light, and you are struck with a wave of nostalgia because you don’t really remember him like that. High-school was almost three decades ago and it feels like a lifetime. 

And that’s really the thing that drives you, a need to immortalize a life that you realize is as fleeting as it is precious. You photograph him obsessively and you cherish the ones where he isn’t even aware you had him in your viewfinder. In the years to come, you will put together album after album filled with snapshots of a lifetime of love and dreams and hope. You also notice that occasionally, pictures go missing and when you ask him he denies knowing anything about it. You find them later, by chance, in his wallet, and you think it's so adorable you have to sit down for a moment. 

Since he also pretended to be innocent, you decide he needs to learn a lesson and you switch out the photographs and replace them with shots of yourself in the middle of fucking him.

It takes almost a week but you know when he finds them because you get a message in the middle of the afternoon that says: _you fucking asshole_ and it makes you smile the entire day.

*

You are 50 and he’s 49 and he’s kissing you with far more enthusiasm than any of your bodies could possibly handle. You laugh because he’s being funny again, even as his hands run up under your shirt and his grip is full of purpose. You trail your fingers through his hair, scratching over his scalp, following the silver lines running from his temples. You find it unfair on a cosmic level that he’s aged so much more graceful than you have, that the lines that time has placed there only seemed to sharpen the angles of his face, accent the seductive slant of his eyes.

He smiles and it’s a smirk really, full of mischievous intent that gets your blood boiling and you are surprised that after a quarter of a century you are still not over it. That after so many years the wild desire for this man has not abated one bit. Your laugh turns into a groan when he tugs at your ear, when you feel the hot air of breath blow over the dampness.

He forgets, as he always does when he’s like this, that he’s supposed to be careful with his knee and he abruptly stops the delightful things he was doing to you, to swear creatively and shift his weight away. 

It’s been years and years since his injury, and you remember how at first this would have been the kind of thing that would have thrown him into one of his moods. You remember how you learned to to read the lines of his face, the shade of his eyes and learned to listen to his body instead of his words. 

It’s been years and years since then and that means he’s made peace with his body, as much as he’ll ever make, and so he just moves to alleviate the pain and lets you roll him over onto his back. You straddle him easily, your fingertips resting on his abdomen, his hands are brands on your hips.

He shifts his legs slightly, adjust you to his liking and lets out a pleased hum when the pressure settles on his midriff just right. Both of you are still mostly clothed and nothing is going to be happening for a while but you are glad that the urgency of youth has left even as the passion remained. 

You look down at him, he’s shirtless, still a bit sweaty from his morning run, and perspiration has added a gleam to his dark skin. Your hands are a stark contrast against it and it thrills you to run them over the slopes and valleys of muscle that he keeps not out of vanity (like you do), but out of sheer love for the sport that brought you together in the first place. He smiles, pleased and a bit smug because he has always been smug in bed, and your chest gets tight because you know he considers you his greatest, most grand accomplishment.

You lean over, overwhelmed by emotion and kiss him deep and slow, and he holds you, anchoring you when you feel you are going to drown in sensation.

You are 50 and he’s 49 and you are both still impossibly, irrevocably in love.

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> _“As if you were on fire from within._  
>  _The moon lives in the lining of your skin.”_  
>  _― Pablo Neruda_  
> 
> 
>   
>  This was supposed to be a cute 200 word drabble but then it got out of hands entirely. I had originally planned to add this Epilogue and an Interlude but I keep having these headcanons for these two doofuses so now I have no idea what will happen.
> 
> As always, commentary and criticism is very welcome and please point out my mistakes if you see them.


End file.
